


Freedom Perishing

by College-Age Zanii (Zaniida)



Series: Amateur Hour [4]
Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Amateur Hour, Gen, Honor, I edited the most egregious bits, Interpersonal Conflict, Old and never going to go anywhere, Teenage Writing, romanticized view of gypsies, setting up mysteries that never go anywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/College-Age%20Zanii
Summary: A young gypsy who despises Frollo is honor-bound to serve him.These two fics are the only HoND pieces I had actually committed to physical form, and I'm certainly not in the right headspace to write more HoND fics.  Which might be a good thing, given that my stories were all based on some romanticized view of gypsies, a stereotype that hardly needs to resurface these days.  Still, as a snapshot of where my writing was at the time, and how far I've progressed, I do find it interesting.





	Freedom Perishing

**Author's Note:**

> "His expression was nonchalant and scornful." What the heck, brain? Vocabulary fail. These two do not go together; lemme just update that a bit.
> 
> "Giving barely a look to the guards and the foreboding atmosphere, he walked straight up the steps, eyed the guards, and confidently but warily approached one." Um… "confidently but warily"? "Gave barely a look, eyed then approached them"?
> 
> Sigh…

The gypsy leaned against the outer wall of the church, watching the proceedings through a stained-glass window. From afar, his expression seemed nonchalant; only up close might an onlooker catch the undercurrent of scorn.

Inside, the small crowd wept and wailed, their cries carrying emotions he'd long since buried. His expression deepened to a scowl. Of anyone here, he'd been with her the most, always at her table and sleeping just a door down from her room. He didn't mourn her passing -- why would he? She was free from the world's woes. Eternal darkness, everlasting nothingness, was preferable to a life of miseries. She had always spoken of a place after death -- some kind of "heaven," yes, that was the term she used -- but he had never bought it. You couldn't have Heaven without God, and surely there was no such being, for how could a God permit such suffering in life? Never more than two sets of clothes, relying on gifts of food to get her through each day, and she had never complained of it. Too, her life had been replete with troubles and illnesses. Finally this one had ended her life, and surely it was for the better.

As he watched them carry the casket away, his stomach and throat felt strange. He paid little attention to the sensations of his body, tried to block them out, refusing to let himself think that he was affected by her passing. Instead, he passed it off as a coming cold. His eyes had remained dry through an entire lifetime of troubles; they did not well up now. It was not a conscious battle, but he would not let them.

Someone saw him watching the funeral, and shouted at him to leave -- no one had ever realized that she had harbored a gypsy. Eyes narrowed, he took his leave of the area and turned toward a forest he knew well. Many times had he taken refuge among these dark green shadows, many times when he felt overwhelmed. Now he did it through no conscious choice, simply to get away. Once he had entered, he kept walking, slowly easing the present but unaccounted for burdens in his mind.

His hand fished out the note again. It was on paper -- real paper, not parchment -- and written in real ink, something few could afford. She had not kept much in the way of material goods, but paper and ink -- however she had managed to get them originally -- were something she'd been proud to have, and she had never used them for anything but the most important reasons. The markings meant nothing to him, though he could have copied them out exactly onto a similar sheet of paper; all he had were her instructions, given with her dying breath. She had pulled a promise from him as she died, and he was determined to make good on his word. He always kept his word. His honor was the only thing he'd held onto all his life -- everything else had left him or been taken away. At least honor was something only he could destroy, something the world could not affect in the least.

If it meant working for the most prejudiced man in Paris, he'd _still_ hold tight to his honor.

* * *

Some days later, he entered Paris and found his way straight to the Palace of Justice. The atmosphere was foreboding, but the young man seemed to pay it no mind; he walked straight up the steps, and eyed the guards, briefly, before approaching one.

Considering that his skin and hair and eyes and form were all that of a gypsy, the young man's bravado was amazing -- at least for someone who knew, as he did, what Judge Claude Frollo did to gypsies. What did he have up his sleeve? It was a small paper bearing but a few words -- words the guards and most others, including the gypsy, could not read. Because it seemed official, and the gypsy stared them down from beneath his dark, rugged bangs, the guards summoned Frollo immediately. Rather upset at being interrupted from whatever activities he'd been engaged in, the Master of Justice appeared to confront his visitor.

It was not uncommon for most gypsies to shake when in the overwhelming presence of that powerful and evil man. Clopin Trouillefou and Esmeralda were rare exceptions to the rule, and Clopin notably more at ease around the judge than Esmeralda could ever be. Neither one of them could be quite as confident, faced with Frollo and four guards directly in front of his lair; yet scornful confidence is precisely what the newcomer showed, as though he could not possibly suffer from this encounter. If he had any adverse feelings toward being near Frollo, he kept them in, and actually stared the judge down with unblinking eyes when the Master of Justice attempted to look him over.

Frollo hurried on to read the letter, and at once his eyes grew wide and his face white. The gypsy seemed moderately pleased by the reaction.

Staring at his visitor in something approaching trepidation, Frollo asked incredulously, "It is true?"

"Would I be here were it not?" he replied, enunciating each word.

"No… no…" mused Frollo in clear, if unexplained, distress. "Come inside," he barked sharply, then turned without even assuring himself that his visitor followed. With narrowed eyes, the gypsy entered the Palace.

He was not, by nature, an insecure person, but the Palace -- death to hundreds of gypsies, imprisonment to thousands more, and by far the most foreboding structure in all of Paris -- scared even him. Still, he looked unmoved, his face unchanging, though his heart beat fast; for always had he trained himself to the discipline of never letting consternation show.

As he followed the flowing black robes of the man into whose care he'd so suddenly been cast, he cast nervous glances at the huge stone walls of the hallway, and the ceiling so high above. Torches flickered, for little light could enter the Palace on its own; there was even a joke in the Court that light feared to enter a place of such dark despair. Other than the torches, though, there was little or nothing in the way of decoration to break the solid utility of the stone.

Frollo stopped before his chambers, paused as if debating something immeasurably hard for him, then swung the heavy doors open and entered. The young gypsy followed only after checking quite obviously for traps -- and, less obviously, for other things. In a glance he'd taken in the whole room and committed it quite easily to memory.

"Now, er --" said Frollo with a returning sense of determination. "Hmm… what's your name, then?"

"It's Ari," said the gypsy with dark, squinted eyes -- not a bit warmed to the judge.

Frollo overlooked his unwanted guest's clear hatred. "Ari -- that will do, I suppose. Beata Maria knows I don't want to be saddled with a gypsy child for--"

"I am _not_ a child," returned the youth.

"You will _not_ interrupt me," Frollo stated clearly, his temper rising. "I have hung many younger than you, boy, so don't cross me.”

Ari said nothing, remembering his promise.

"About your message, then… she _is_ dead?"

The gypsy nodded soberly, keeping even the appearance of caring locked deep inside.

"I see _you_ don't miss her."

"I miss no one. The way I've lived, it doesn't pay to get attached to people. They die," he added bluntly, "just a little too often."

"Strange -- I hold a similar theory myself. Well, her death is my own affair. As to you… did she leave instructions?"

"Come here. See you. Deliver the message. Mmm… and stay with you -- much to my distaste. I'm to become your apprentice, and she said you were to be my guardian." He showed no emotion but hate.

"I am to care for you… and to teach you?"

"You don't have to. I've always survived. I don't need your help."

"I would never shirk from my responsibilities," Frollo stated firmly.

"I'd prefer if you did. I do better alone."

"You stayed with _her_ just fine."

"I promised her I would."

"You could just _go_ \-- I'm sure I won't have my eye on you every second."

"I will not go unless you tell me I am free."

"Whyever not? Gypsies are not known for their honor," Frollo added scornfully. "It wouldn't trouble your image."

"It is not my image. It _is_ my honor and I won't lose it, even to leave someone as cruel as you."

Frollo's eyes widened angrily.

"I promised her, and I _will_ not break that promise," continued Ari. "If you want to get rid of me, simply _tell_ me to go."

From this ensued a more-honorable-than-thou argument that got neither side anywhere. Finally Ari backed down, remembering his promise to obey Frollo. "It doesn't matter to me if you think I am honorable or not. I am your charge now, and if you don't see fit to release me, I will stay and obey you inasmuch as I expect I should."

Clearly Frollo didn't believe a word, but he accepted the statement with some graciousness and showed Ari to a closed-off section of the Palace. It was to be Ari's room for the coming months -- however long the apprenticeship lasted -- and that night Ari sleep sweetly on a cold stone floor, something he was more used to than any soft bed.

The next day, Frollo bought a bed for him, feeling somewhat remiss in his duties, and Ari never slept as well again.

**Author's Note:**

> A description I just cut out as completely breaking the flow of the scene (and I didn't update the diction at all):
> 
>  
> 
> _At a closer examination of the gypsy, he could not have been more than twenty, though already he had the brow and furtive eyes of a man hardened to testing, toil, and dishonest means of gain. His skin was of a beautiful brown like a deep, perfect tan just a bit darker than normal tans. His face was slim and of a slightly tapered, round-edge rectangular shape… despite his color you would believe him to hold strong blood that was _not_ gypsy. His black hair was cut in a short style with the hair scarcely longer than the bangs, and they hardly grazing his eyebrows. Large and completely dark, so that you could not distinguish pupil from iris, his eyes followed Frollo with disdain and mistrust, his feet ready to flee, always far enough behind the judge to avoid any surprises._
> 
>  
> 
> _The youth's clothes were strange too. They were those of the freelance mercenary, leather patched many times over and still torn, yet he appeared to carry no weapon. They were surely no gypsy costume. There was no taint of beer or liquor or the smoke of a pipe on his clothes, though they were slightly burnt in places, and his bare arms -- the vest was short-sleeved, as was the shirt beneath -- showed scars proudly borne of fires he'd endured, played on the tight, trained muscles of a a hard youth. So young, and the scars so recent! Wonder at his dark expression but little. He has been dealt no natural hand at life and has bluffed his way through incidents beyond measure, sometimes escaping but a foot ahead of pursuit, sometimes not even that. Of course he bears his scars with pride -- what else has this young vagrant to be proud of?_
> 
>  
> 
> So… yeah. That's the kind of descriptions I wrote, back in college. Didn't even know how to weave them into the action….
> 
> My webpage ended this fic with the following line:
> 
>  
> 
> _Who is Ari? What is his heritage -- or is that relevant? What will he become? What are his trials in the days to come? All is forthcoming…_
> 
>  
> 
> Of course, since the stories I had for the character have almost entirely fled my brain, this is pretty much all there is. Ah well. Time to get back to writing POI!


End file.
